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He only had one overriding priority now. He had to escape.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the road, Visser pressed hard on the accelerator, the heavy articulated truck thundering forward.

He was comfortably over the limit, but felt speed was now more important than caution, his instinct telling him that he was in danger.

He had no idea what the escaped illegal had told her rescuer, or indeed the police, during her brief interlude of freedom, but he knew this horrific lapse in security meant only bad things – for him, for Leyla, for their whole operation.

The illegal had seen him face on, had no doubt already provided the police with a physical description, his nationality, details about the Rotterdam hostel and possibly more besides.

Should he lie low then, wait for the heat to die down, then attempt to leave the UK?

His gut told him no. Viyan had been recaptured fairly quickly, her rescuer injured in attempting to save her and, with both of them out of the game, there was a chance, a window to exploit.

If they hadn’t yet made contact with the police, or if the authorities were slow to connect the dots, then he might still be able to slip out of the country with his stash of gold before the shit hit the fan.

Racing past a thirty sign at well north of fifty miles an hour, Visser now took his foot off the accelerator, bringing the truck down to a more acceptable speed.

He was now only a few miles from the docks.

If luck was on his side, if fate smiled upon him, he would be on a crossing tonight, back to his beloved Holland.

He enjoyed his visits to England, had made good money here, but he never felt comfortable until he was back amongst his own countrymen, able to blend into the background.

Here he always felt like a curiosity, the locals taking great pleasure in his accent for reasons which were beyond him.

The sooner he was back in Rotterdam, his hometown, the better.

Even as he thought this, his eyes strayed to his faded Feyenoord scarf, a good luck charm he always took with him on foreign trips.

It had not let him down yet and he longed to be wearing it once more in its proper setting, the majestic De Kuip stadium in the south of the city.

The thought made his heart ache, picturing himself amidst the throng, enjoying the roar of the crowd, the crisp bite of cheap beer, the tang of his post-match smoke.

Simple pleasures, but he had learned to treasure them, so unpredictable, dangerous and fraught had his day-to-day life become.

Maybe he should give it all up, embrace a quieter life now that he had a golden retirement pot, acknowledge that he had had a good run.

That might help persuade Suzanne to finally take him back, but was it realistic?

Was there not a part of him that enjoyed the tension, revelled in the drama? Was he really cut out to be ordinary ?

Checking his mirrors, Visser realized there was a queue forming behind him.

Uncomfortable with a long line of cars sitting on his bumper, he wound down his window, gesturing for them to pass.

The way ahead was clear and the first car in line needed no second invitation, the souped-up Mazda roaring past and racing away into the distance.

After a small delay, a second car also followed, a Land Rover Discovery turning on the burners, the attractive driver looking up at him as she sped past. The third car, a red hatchback, remained where it was, however, keeping a safe distance between them.

Surprised, Visser stuck his arm out again, gesturing once more for the Corsa to pass, reluctant to have anyone sitting on his bumper.

But once more the driver made no move to respond, despite the open road ahead.

And now a disturbing thought stole over Visser.

Was it possible he was being followed? That someone was on to him?

Raising his speed slightly, he was alarmed to see the red Corsa respond, matching his pace.

Frowning, Visser stabbed the brake quickly.

This seemed to take the hatchback by surprise, suddenly drawing it close to his truck.

Now he had a clearer view of the driver and what he saw shocked him to the core.

It was Emilia Garanita. He would recognize that face anywhere.

She was following him. She was stalking him, intent on gaining her revenge.

Keeping his speed steady, determined not to reveal that he’d spotted her, Visser thundered on towards the docks, his mind reeling.

How on earth had she found him? Had she already called the cops?

Were they lying in wait for him? If so, with only a mile or so until the port, was it too late to do anything about it?

Had he finally run out of road?